


Try A Little Tenderness

by howdyspacebuddy (eigengrau)



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 10:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7264783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/howdyspacebuddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The needle drops and fuzz fills the room, that quiet record static bumping into the still summer night as the LP swirls, waiting for that first groove of sound.</p><p>A quiet night in for March and Healy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try A Little Tenderness

The needle drops and fuzz fills the room, that quiet record static bumping into the still summer night as the LP swirls, waiting for that first groove of sound. A saxophone starts up, and then the slow pluck of the bass strings as Otis Redding’s voice croons in, “ _Ooh, she may be weary, and young girls they do get wearied_ …”

Holland backs up from the record player, watching the record spin. He turns on his heel, wobbling only slightly, and brandishes the tumbler of whiskey in his hand at Jackson, who sits on the couch, eyebrows raised and a smile ghosting at the edges of his mouth and crinkling the crow’s feet that flank his blue eyes. “C’mon,” he says, only slurring a little, “dance with me.”

“You know this song gets a lot more intense, right?” Jackson asks.

Holland shoots him a look. “What’s your deal? Two left feet?”

“I’m not exactly Baryshnikov.”

Holland rolls his eyes. “Hardy har,” he says, leaning down and grabbing Jackson’s hand. He pulls him to his feet, not without effort and over Jackson’s half-laughed protestations. Dragging Jackson into the middle of the room, he twists the dial on the stereo, turning up the volume. With Holly sleeping over at a friends’ house for the night, there’s no fear of waking her up, and with the shades pulled and the door locked, they’ve got all the privacy you could want. Empty bottles and half-finished glasses litter the coffee table and the counter, Holland’s night’s work, and Jackson’s gone through two Cokes and a YooHoo in as many hours. Holland throws one arm around Jackson’s neck, the other hand still holding his drink, and pulls him close, their bodies flush. A static spark goes through them where Jackson presses a hand to the small of Holland’s back, his socks scuffing lightning through the shag carpet. Holland’s own bare feet stumble, bumping against Jackson’s.

They sway together, a little awkward, neither of them quite in rhythm. The song picks up, as per Jackson’s warning, and Holland shots the last of his whiskey and drops the glass to fall safely on the rug, burying his face in the curve where Jackson’s shoulder and neck meet. His mustache tickles the skin, and Jackson rubs his own stubbled cheek over Holland’s.

“ _But it’s so easy, all you’ve gotta do is try, try a little tenderness, yeah_ …” Otis sings like he’s projecting his soul out of his body. Holland pulls back and stares Jackson in the eyes, lids heavy but unblinking. Jackson stares back.

“You know you’ve got a little scar right on the bottom of your chin?” Holland asks.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Jackson says, and does.

Otis builds in intensity as the kiss does, until Jackson’s got Holland walked back and pressed against the wall. He could stay here forever, mouth-to-mouth, breathing in each other’s air and biting at each other’s lips. The song fades out, back into the static between the grooves, and he forces himself to pull back. Holland grins at him, eyes glassy.

“Knew you could dance,” he says. “Danced me right into the corner.”

Jackson snorts and leads him back to the sofa. They both collapse against the cushions, legs suddenly wobbly. The next song starts, and they let it play out.

Jackson glances over at Holland where he’s curled up, arms crossed and knees pulled to his chest in the corner of the couch, sleepy low-key drunk and fragile. Jackson can't help but stare at him, at how vulnerable he looks, how young. A melancholy ache blossoms low in his belly as he turns away, standing and grabbing the empties to busy himself in the kitchen. He heads to the bedroom, then pauses and grabs a woolen blanket from the bottom shelf of the linen closet in the hall. 

In the living room he lifts the needle on the record player and drapes the blanket over Holland's shoulders. Holland stirs, blinks up at him blearily. 

"Sorry," He mutters, only half awake. 

Jackson squeezes a hand on his partner’s shoulder. "You wanna come to bed?"

Holland looks around. "Nah, it’s still early, I don't wanna be a pain."

"You're not a pain." He helps the other man to his feet. "And it’s nearly midnight."

“I’m getting old,” Holland moans, and Jackson rolls his eyes as they shuffle into the bedroom.

“You’re a real dinosaur.” He strips off his shirt and jeans as Holland sits on the bed and yawns, nestling into the rumpled sheets. Jackson reaches out a hand and gently pulls him back up to sit. “Hey, come on, you’ve gotta get out of those clothes.”

“Right. My bad.” Holland slips his shirt over his head, not bothering with the buttons, and sheds his pants, leaving them to slither off onto a pile on the floor.

Jackson crawls under the covers next to him, mattress dipping under their combined weight. Holland clicks off the bedside table lamp and rolls over to face him, scratching at his chest. The gold ring glints dully in the strips of orange streetlight that creep in through the venetian blinds, the chain around his neck curling to fall half-under his body where it presses against the sheets. The night is hot, and Jackson only pulls the sheets up halfway, but Holland reaches over and pushes them down further, resting a hand on the curve of Jackson’s belly.

Jackson pries the hand off. “Whadda you wanna do that for?” he mutters.

“’s nice.” Holland throws an arm over Jackson’s chest and lets his hand drift back down, tracing swirls against the skin. “Y’ look… good. Solid. I like it.” He nuzzles against Jackson’s cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Jackson flushes in the dark and hopes Holland won’t notice. “You wouldn’t say that if you were sober.”

“Excuse you,” Holland mumbles, “you’re sexy whatever state of inebriation or sobriety I currently happen to be in.”

“Uh huh,” Jackson says incredulously, then lifts his head as Holland starts to slide down the bed, kissing down his chest. “What are you doing?”

“Whatever I want,” the kisses continue across his stomach, and Jackson can’t help the shiver of pleasure that runs through him when Holland’s lips brush over his skin, “it’s my house, remember?”

“You were falling asleep five minutes ago,” Jackson reminds him as Holland moves between his legs. He grips the sheets in his fist, other hand going to rest on the top of Holland’s head.

Holland shrugs as he works Jackson’s boxers down over his hips. “I got my second wind.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jackson sucks in a breath as Holland ducks down to lick a stripe up his cock, “what I’d give for your stamina.”

“Sorry, old man.” Holland smooths his palms over the inside of Jackson’s thighs as he takes him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard.

A car goes by outside and the headlights sweep over them in bars through the window shades. Jackson focuses on the face of the alarm clock on the bedside, soft white in the dark as it ticks over into the next morning, because if he doesn’t have something to ground him this would be over before it began. Holland looks up at him through thick eyelashes and Jackson cards blunt fingers through his partner’s blonde hair, mussing it and making him feel impossibly clumsy. Holland moans around his cock and Jackson echoes it back.

Holland takes the sound as a challenge, a dare to pull more noises out of Jackson, normally so stoic. He squeezes his thumb in his palm, an old trick learned in college, and lets his throat relax, gag reflex already dulled along with the rest of his drunk-loose body. He swallows almost unconsciously and concentrates on breathing through his nose as Jackson’s cock nudges at the back of his throat and then, adjusting the angle of his head, deeper.

“Holy fuck,” Jackson tightens his grip on Holland’s hair, tugging at the roots. Holland closes his eyes, which are watering a little, and palms his own cock through his underwear, hard and straining against the fabric. He could lose himself in this, in the tight fit of Jackson’s dick in his mouth, in that rough, low voice. The sound of Jackson swearing and panting wraps around him as his lips meet the base of his cock.

Holland pauses for a second, collecting his breath, before he pulls nearly off and plunges back down, wet and sloppy. Jackson can’t help but buck up into his mouth. Holland gasps around him, choking a little but tightening his grip on Jackson’s thigh as he works the other hand around his cock, fumbling to pull himself out of his briefs. Jackson thrusts into his mouth and Holland has to squeeze his shaft to stop from coming right there, whiskey dick be damned, as hard as he’s ever been.

“Fuck, you look so good,” Jackson groans. “Careful, I’m gonna—”

Holland opens his eyes and looks up at him, and that’s it. Jackson comes down Holland’s throat, hot and bitter, vision whiting out and his own ragged breath ringing in his ears.

Holland coughs as he pulls off, wiping his mouth. Jackson, still dazed, sits up on his elbows half-heartedly. “Shit, sorry, tried to warn you—”

Holland shakes his head, waving him off. He rubs his palm along Jackson’s belly and pushes up off the bed, standing unsteadily and wandering to the bathroom. Jackson hears the tell-tale running faucet, the sound of Holland spitting into the sink. Jackson falls back against the pillows and watches as Holland re-appears in the doorway, toeing off his briefs and leaving them on the floor before crawling back into bed next to him.

Jackson wraps an arm around Holland’s shoulder and pulls him in for a kiss. Slow and lazy, they both melt into it. “That tire you out?” Jackson asks when they break apart.

Holland hums and burrows down into the sheets, throwing one leg over Jackson’s. His cock, still hard, presses against his partner’s thigh.

“You want me to take care of that?” Jackson murmurs, but Holland is already asleep. In the morning, then. Jackson shuts his eyes and drifts off to the sound of Holland’s steady, sleepy breathing.


End file.
